


Running Backwards

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-04
Updated: 2007-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Getting somewhere, but not to a place he's never been. 2.14 coda, spoilers, all that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Running Backwards  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: Adult  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: Getting somewhere, but not to a place he's never been. 2.14 coda, spoilers, all that.  
  
  
  
The road has always been his.  
  
Dean calls the Impala his baby, his home, and maybe it is; but Sam remembers riding in Dad's truck, walking, taking his bike from Stanford to a friend's house because even with the not-quite-minimum-wage job he never could afford a car; and the only constant in all of that, confusion and poverty and the cutting loneliness that he never knew would come with getting away, was the road. _His_ road.  
  
They look the same, Nebraska Illinois Kentucky Florida, black pavement and white, yellow lines; signs that flash in the headlights and flowers bending away from the force of hundreds of cars hurtling past. But Nebraska's roads are bumpy and Illinois' are too smooth and Kentucky’s and Florida's are both less roads and more paths, cutting through a wilderness that's too stubborn to let go.  
  
Laughter became old and stale two states ago. Sam learned in his Psych 101 class that after traumatic experiences people always search for something humorous, and that it might not always actually be funny.  
  
He learned in Psych 158 that not everyone's like that.  
  
Dean, he knows, thinks Sam having a girl in him is genuinely funny. Hell, come Christmas this year, he'll still be teasing Sam about it. But he's not laughing now because Sam's not laughing - Sam's gloomy and staring at the white line as it disappears and reappears in infinitely small increments, a fraction that can never be solved, and if Sam's not happy then he knows Dean won't let himself be.  
  
They're like leeches, like mistletoe. Parasites of society who've forgotten how to do anything with each other except steal, lean on, models of dependency.  
  
They stop, finally, in Mississippi, after twenty hours of Dean's lead foot on the gas driving them South, down through the bare Midwest and into swamp land, ghost land; not a place they visit often simply because the people here don't flip their lids as often, don't need _help_ as often. Here, the past butts up with the present in a slow lazy drift, and people take care of themselves and their own without worrying about what the outside world says isn't true or real.  
  
Holiday Inn, Best Western, none of 'em has found this little town yet, so they book a room in an old-fashioned one-story wraparound, with a grassy courtyard in the middle. It's night again, near full moon, and the plastic benches glow in the light.  
  
They drop their stuff on the beds and Dean goes into the bathroom. Sam sits on his mattress and stares at the wall.  
  
A year and a half he's been doing this now, and the way it feels is starting to scare him more than the possession did. Getting banged up, having a demon in his skin, doesn't feel as jarringly _wrong_ as it used to. Sam's home and only belonging is the road, but these motels and his bags and his gun and his _Dean_ are starting to feel more real than a nice apartment and a beautiful girl ever did.  
  
"This isn't okay, is it," he says when Dean comes out again.  
  
Dean stares at him for a long moment, face completely still. Sam would like to move, to say something; but he just waits.  
  
Finally Dean sighs. "Fuckin' moron," he says, tapping his fingers against his thigh, the rapid movement looking almost wrong compared to the complete stillness of the rest of him. "Come on, then."  
  
Sam blinks. "Huh?"  
  
"Get your ass up and come out to the yard," Dean says impatiently, and because he looks ready to shoot something Sam obeys.  
  
It's just cold enough not to be muggy, but the air still feels like it's dragging at Sam, especially after the crisp freeze of Minnesota. But it feels good--like all his innards are being exposed to the air, cleansed, so he tilts his head back towards the moon and breathes deep.  
  
Dean's standing in the middle of the yard, just watching him. Sam feels a shiver go down his back. "What?"  
  
"Meg had your body."  
  
He doesn't know where Dean's going with this, and he'd like to just turn around and walk away, but...  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"She used it to beat the shit out of me."  
  
And he can't help but smile at that, because - well. Now he knows why they're out here. "Among other things."  
  
So Dean cocks his head, eyes glinting weirdly in what Sam tells himself is just a trick of the moonlight, and grins.  
  
"Come on, then," he says, and cocks his fingers in the universal "bring it on" pose.  
  
Sam doesn't want to. Well - no. It isn't that he doesn't want to, because he does, but he's pathetically paralyzingly afraid that when he does his body will remember hurting, torturing, and they'll stop sparring and start fighting like they haven't since the time with the Nair and the eyebrow shaving.  
  
"I can't," he says, finally.  
  
There's a second of almost-silence. The noises of chirping crickets and humming insects almost drown out Sam's thoughts; it's summer here, right in the middle of winter, and when Dean strips his shirt off sweat glistens slickly.  
  
"Cut the bullshit, Sam," Dean says, sounding tired enough for Sam to do a double take. "Just cut it the fuck out. You're not - Christ. You're not _Luke,_ okay? You're not Vader. You don't got a fucking _destiny._ "  
  
It shouldn't be the thing that talks sense into Sam, because it's not a big epiphany-bringing speech. It's not even grammatically correct, and all it reveals is that Dean shouldn't've brainwashed himself with Star Wars as a kid. But Sam finds himself opening his eyes a bit wider and looking around - at Dean, at the motel, and at the sky, pulsing serenely in beats of apathy.   
  
No one cares, he realizes. No one cares about whether he lives or dies. The fate of the universe or even of the Earth doesn't, actually, rest in his hands.  
  
The demon isn't the Demon; it's just one of many. Nasty, but not the devil. Nowhere close.  
  
The knowledge engenders the anger, rising in his chest, burning slow and hot.  
  
So he takes a deep breathe and unbuttons his shirt, tosses it aside to gather dew on the grass. Dean is watching him, hungry eyes and eager bodies. Will it end - like that? Probably, Sam thinks, and rushes at him.  
  
Puch-block kick-duck hit-dodge, too quick to follow, bodies moving in an easy tandem born of years of practice that even a thousand and a half days couldn't damage. Sam wants to tackle Dean, to touch and kiss and wring some semblance of _okay_ out of all of this, but the fighting-that-isn't is about what Dean needs as much as anything else, so Sam lets the memories Meg made him gain slowly drift out and away, an angry grin growing on his face until it matches Dean's.  
  
"Think you're gonna win this, Sammy?" Dean asks, panting. "Think you're better than me?"  
  
Sam laughs, throwing his face back, the stars whirling overhead in a dizzying circle. "Naw," he says, jabbing at Dean's stomach and jumping when Dean drops to the ground and swipes his foot, "just taller."  
  
And then he does what he's wanted to do since Jo patched Dean up, fixed the problems he made: he pounces, legs on either side of Dean's, collapsing onto his brother when Dean slams into the dirt, grass cushioning the fall.  
  
"Son of a motherfucking _bitch_ ," Dean growls, and he's throwing Sam off, rolling them over, until there's soft springy green under Sam's head and Dean half-laughing half-hollering right above him and then Dean's lips on his and Dean's fingers threading through his and.  
  
Yes.  
  
This has nothing to do with right-wrong truth-lies good-evil. Nothing to do with destiny or death or stupid fucking things that make Sam's head hurt, that make him want to just pull the damn trigger and be done with it.  
  
He's not even sure they could put a name to this even if they wanted to. Love, sure, because they're brothers and _Winchesters_ and love is part of who they are. But...no, that isn't it, and Sam's been through sixteen years of schooling and 48 1/2 states (Dean insists that Alaska doesn't count since they only crossed the state line once while they were lost and trying to find a Canadian town full of possessed moose...es) but he can't think of a single word that even approaches describing what they're doing.  
  
"Dude," Dean says, slow and thick and clear. Sam opens his eyes to see Dean's face, dark, the moon outlining him in blue-white light. "Shut up."  
  
"Huh," Sam says unintelligently.  
  
Dean smirks, runs fingers up Sam's bare chest. Sam shivers. "When you think, you're loud," he says, and Sam doesn't quite get how that's even possible but whatever, Dean only makes sense about half the time anyway, "and I'm trying to do something, here."  
  
Sam lifts a hand and then blinks, looks at it, unsure of what to do. Might as well - and he raises it to Dean's head, pulls him down and kisses him hard.  
  
It hurts, an insistent tugging feeling in the pit of his stomach that's almost guilt, not quite joy. It hurts and it's _good_ , good enough for Sam to arch against Dean, to look down at watch as their skins slide against each other - to kiss Dean again, because after having his own body stolen from him Sam needs to get out, to be _in_ Dean far enough that what's been done in him isn't such an ever-present burden.  
  
"Love you," he says, because it's true, but also and mostly because he can't think of anything else to say.  
  
"Shut up," Dean says, and Sam's being pushed down, _into_ the ground.  
  
Snap and Sam's jeans are undone, his cock tugged out, and he hisses and closes his eyes because now the moon's flooding them both, tumbling laughing down the planes of Dean's back, shying away from the smile he sends up as he slides down Sam's body.  
  
"Remember those Indian freaks we met in El Paso?" he asks, caressing Sam's dick with thumb and forefingers, squeezing notquitealmost hard enough. "They thought the Earth was cleansing. Called it Mother, God - said it could wash away sins."  
  
He knows where Dean's going with this and he wants to stop him, wants to say _no, Dean, it's not like that_ but it is, fuck, it _is_ and they both know it.  
  
"All the shit in your own soul, the earth'll take and turn it into a flowerbed of fucking begonias or something." Now tongue, just the tip, darting out and licking. "So let it out."  
  
"Huh?" Sam can barely pay attention anymore, can barely hang on, and he's pretty sure Dean didn't just tell him to take a crap in the motel courtyard, but not sure enough to not need to ask.  
  
"Scream. Strip naked and roll in the mud. Do _something,_ , man, because when you go loony I don't wanna wake up to find out you've blown the house down with your brain, or something."  
  
And before Sam can laugh or even make a snide remark about the Impala and role reversal, Dean opens his mouth.  
  
Hot. Hot and sucking, sucking _hard_ , and Sam's thread of semicoherent thought breaks apart into fragments of sensation and shards of emotions, regret and anger and a feeling that's not hopelessness but the antithesis of hope, like the empty frantic center of a curse left to fester.   
  
His fingers dig into the dirt, scraping against rocks that make his skin pulse hard and angry. He thrusts into Dean's mouth and closes his fist around the earth, heels sliding against dew-wet grass.  
  
"It's not your fault," Dean says, pulling back.  
  
He lets himself relax, his back slumping down until he's touching the ground from head to toe, and Dean moves back up , arms relaxing so that he's lying on top of Sam and Sam's cocooned, cradled, by the ground underneath and his brother above.  
  
"You fucking _moron,_ " Dean says, and thrusts, rubbing their dicks together; Sam grimaces, keeping his eyes shut.  
  
"This isn't your fault," he says, voice penetrating the stubborn penitence ricocheting in Sam's mind. "Meg isn't you."  
  
"I let her in," Sam protests. "I let her take over, it was me, she couldn't have -"  
  
"You think that fireman wanted to go in and kill us?" Dean demands. "You think Meg, the _real_ Meg, wanted the last year of her life taken by that thing? You're being an idiot. You're acting like a fucking civilian, Sammy."  
  
It's an insult that dates back to long sleepy summer days spent shooting at straw demons, boring gym classes and school bullies who cry when Dean takes them out, karate teachers who try to sue them when Sam breaks their best instructor's arm. Civilian, a word that to them means weak, ignorant. Needy.  
  
Sam opens his eyes then, glares. "I'm not!"  
  
"Possession isn't the person's fault and you know it, dickwad."  
  
And for some reason that's the straw to break the camel's back. Sam pushes him off furiously, leaping to his feet, sickening ange-frustration running through his veins and the truth of what Dean said beating at him like a pissed-off poltergeist. He can't control it, he can't stop it, he's fucking _helpless,_ and the knowledge has him screaming at the sky, kicking the bench, beating his feet on the ground. He's finally lost it, finally snapped, ripping handfuls of grass out of the dirt and raging against the too-soft night heat, the heartbeat of _don't-care, doesn't-matter_ he can hear even when he tries to shut it out.  
  
He hates it: standing here on the ground where countless people have already died and will continue to die until eternity's snuffed out, under a sky that looks upon demons and people and answers no questions, grants no favors. He hates travelling to town after town and seeing so many people that eventually he realizes that they're all the same. He hates losing faith, hunt after hunt, and watching Dean watch him like Sam should say the angelic one, keep believing in...everything. Dean.  
  
The concrete of the walkway is hard on his knees when he collapses and the rocks cut into his hands when he hits the ground with his fists, but it's okay because it's pain and it's immediate and Sam doesn't have to worry that something else is making him think this, do this, because the bursts of agony are shocking his body and they're _his._  
  
Maybe this is what crazy feels like.  
  
And then there are arms around him, pushing him back against the grass, on his side this time so his cheek rests against the earth; arms around him, legs tucked against his. "Idiot, idiot," muttered in low tones, and Sam realizes that Dean's spooning him and muttering what might as well be an endearment and suddenly the anger's gone.  
  
"'m tired," he says, and he feels Dean smile against his neck.  
  
"Too tired for this?"  
  
Fabric rustles and Dean's dick presses against his back, somehow more real than the ground or the sky or everything in between. Sam arches back, shudders.  
  
"Duh," he says, and Dean huffs a breath of almost-laughter.  
  
"Alright, then."  
  
Pain. Spit and dew-slicked hardness splitting him apart, like his hands against the cement only more immediate, more _real,_ making him push back and demand faster, harder, even while Dean grits his teeth and goes in slow. Pulsing rhythm that if he closes his eyes matches the beat of his heart, which makes him wonder if Meg didn't spend her time in his body reading romance novels, because his heart doesn't beat in angry thrusts and shaky motions, and his body doesn't feel like it's burning up every time his heart beats.  
  
Whatever.  
  
"Please," he whispers, and feels himself flush with almost-shame when Dean growls and reaches around, jacking Sam off hard.  
  
"This is it," Dean says, words harsh in the heavy night. "You got it? This."  
  
Sweat makes them slide together, makes the cuts on Sam's hands sting, but he nods. He understands what Dean's saying, and he understands what Dean's not saying; somewhere along the way the two meet up, and it's okay.  
  
Dean bites the back of his neck, cups Sam's balls, thrusts until Sam feels himself slipslide against the grass. And this - clumsy, ridiculous, fucking _hot_ \- Sam suddenly opens his eyes and realizes that they could get caught at any second and arrested, that they're fucking _related,_ that everything's stupid and pointless and higgledy-piggledy wrong, and.  
  
It's hilarious.  
  
He throws his head back and laughs into the night, laughs until he's shaking, laughs until Dean groans and comes in him, laughs even while he spills onto Dean's hand and into the ground. He laughs until his stomach aches from it, laughs until he can barely move. He laughs when Dean flings a leg over him and drips sweat onto Sam's face, and he laughs into the kiss that Dean gives him, clutching Dean close until neither of them can move.  
  
"Understand?" Dean asks finally, pulling away.  
  
After a minute Sam nods. "Yeah," he says, voice scratchy - exhausted. "Yeah, I think so."  
  
"Good."  
  
And Dean's standing up, offering him a hand. Sam lets himself be pulled up and leans on Dean like a drunk, the world wobbling before him.   
  
"Get offa me," Dean grumbles, smacking his ass. Sam snorts and launches forward, half-running towards their room until he's in and relaxing on the cool sheets.  
  
"Tomorrow we're hitting Mexico," he says. "And we're going skinny-dipping."  
  
Dean's smile is a flash of white in the darkness. Skinny-dipping, and along the way laughing and arguing and fucking, miles of road ahead of them and stretching behind, and if it's running away then at least they're having fun while they flee.  
  
"You got it," Dean says.  
  
Sam does.


End file.
